Fifty Shades Darker(14)By: E L James
“Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele.”
I pull against my restraints and the bed creaks ominously, but I don’t care—I’m burning with desire, it’s consuming me. He takes another spoonful and lets the ice cream dribble onto my breasts. Then with the back of the spoon, he spreads it over each breast and nipple.
Oh … it’s cold. Each nipple peaks and hardens beneath the cool of the vanilla.
“Cold?” Christian asks softly and bends to lick and suckle all the ice cream off me once more, his mouth hot compared to the cool of the ice.
It’s torture. As it starts to melt, the ice cream runs off me in rivulets onto the bed. His lips continue their slow torture, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly—Oh please!—I’m panting.
“Want some?” And before I can confirm or deny his offer, his tongue is in my mouth, and it’s cold and skilled and tastes of Christian and vanilla. Delicious.
And just as I am getting used to the sensation, he sits up again and trails a spoonful of ice cream down the center of my body, across my stomach, and into my navel where he deposits a large dollop of ice cream. Oh, this is chillier than before, but weirdly it burns.
“Now, you’ve done this before.” Christian’s eyes shine. “You’re going to have to stay still, or there will be ice cream all over the bed.” He kisses each of my breasts and sucks each of my nipples hard, then follows the line of ice cream down my body, sucking and licking as he goes.
And I try; I try to stay still despite the heady combination of cold and his inflaming touch. But my hips start to move involuntarily, gyrating to their own rhythm, caught up in his cool vanilla spell. He shifts lower and starts eating the ice cream in my belly, swirling his tongue into and around my navel.
I moan. Holy cow. It’s cold, it’s hot, it’s tantalizing, but he doesn’t stop. He trails the ice cream farther down my body, into my pubic hair, on to my clitoris. I cry out, loudly.
“Hush now,” Christian says softly as his magical tongue sets to work lapping up the vanilla, and now I’m keening quietly.
“Oh … please … Christian.”
“I know, baby, I know,” he breathes as his tongue works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, and my body is climbing—higher, higher. He slips one finger inside me, then another, and he moves them with agonizing slowness in and out.
“Just here,” he murmurs, and he rhythmically strokes the front wall of my vagina while he continues the exquisite, relentless licking and sucking.
I erupt unexpectedly into a mind-blowing orgasm that stuns all my senses, obliterating all that’s happening outside my body as I writhe and groan. Holy fucking cow, that was so quick.
I am vaguely aware that he has stopped his ministrations. He’s hovering over me, sliding on a condom, and then he’s inside me, hard and fast.
“Oh yes!” he groans as he slams into me. He’s sticky—the residual melted ice cream spreading between us. It’s a strangely distracting sensation, but one I can’t dwell on for more than a few seconds as Christian suddenly pulls out of me and flips me over.
“This way,” he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once more, but he doesn’t start his usual punishing rhythm straight away. He leans over, releases my hands, and pulls me upright so I am practically sitting on him. His hands move up to my breasts, and he palms them both, tugging gently on my nipples. I groan, tossing my head back against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck, biting down, as he flexes his hips, deliciously slowly, filling me again and again.
“Do you know how much you mean to me?” he breathes against my ear.
“No,” I gasp.
He smiles against my neck, and his fingers curl around my jaw and throat, holding me fast for a moment.
“Yes, you do. I’m not going to let you go.”
I groan as he picks up speed.
“You are mine, Anastasia.”
“Yes, yours,” I pant.
“I take care of what’s mine,” he hisses and bites my ear.
I cry out.
“That’s right, baby, I want to hear you.” He snakes one hand around my waist while his other hand grasps my hip, and he pushes into me harder, making me cry out again. And the punishing rhythm starts. His breathing grows harsher and harsher, ragged, matching mine. I feel the familiar quickening deep inside. Again!
I am just sensation. This is what he does to me—takes my body and possesses it wholly so that I think of nothing but him. His magic is powerful, intoxicating. I’m a butterfly caught in his net, unable and unwilling to escape. I’m his … totally his.
“Come on, baby,” he growls through gritted teeth and on cue, like the sorcerer’s apprentice I am, I let go, and we find our release together.
I AM LYING CURLED up in his arms on sticky sheets. His front is pressed to my back, his nose in my hair.
“What I feel for you frightens me,” I whisper.
He stills. “Me too, baby,” he says quietly.
“What if you leave me?” The thought is horrific.
“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever have my fill of you, Anastasia.”
I turn and gaze at him. His expression is serious, sincere. I lean over and kiss him gently. He smiles and reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again.” He sounds so sad, dazed even.
I kiss him again. I want to lighten our mood somehow, but Christian does it for me.
“Will you come with me to my father’s summer party tomorrow? It’s an annual charity thing. I said I’d go.”
I smile, feeling suddenly shy.
“Of course I’ll come.” Oh, shit. I have nothing to wear.
“Tell me,” he insists.
“I have nothing to wear.”
Christian looks momentarily uncomfortable.
“Don’t be mad, but I still have all those clothes for you at home. I am sure there are a couple of dresses in there.”
I purse my lips. “Do you, now?” I mutter, my voice sardonic. I don’t want to fight with him tonight. I need a shower.
THE GIRL WHO LOOKS like me is standing outside SIP. Hang on—she is me. I am pale and unwashed, and all my clothes are too big; I’m staring at her, and she’s wearing my clothes—happy, healthy.
“What do you have that I don’t?” I ask her.
“Who are you?”
“I’m nobody … Who are you? Are you nobody, too …?”
“Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell, they’d banish us, you know …” She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that spreads across her face, and it’s so chilling that I start to scream.
“JESUS, ANA!” CHRISTIAN IS shaking me awake.
I am so disoriented. I’m at home … in the dark … in bed with Christian. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind.
“Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream.”
He switches on the lamp so we’re bathed in its dim light. He gazes down at me, his face etched with concern.
“The girl,” I whisper.
“What is it? What girl?” he asks soothingly.
“There was a girl outside SIP when I left this evening. She looked like me … but not really.”
Christian stills, and as the light from the bedside lamp warms up, I see his face is ashen.
“When was this?” he whispers, dismayed. He sits up, staring down at me.
“When I left work this evening,” I repeat. “Do you know who she is?”
“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair.
His mouth presses into a hard line, but he says nothing.
“Who?” I press.
I swallow. The ex-sub! I remember Christian talking about her before we went gliding. Suddenly, he’s radiating tension. Something is going on.
“The girl who put ‘Toxic’ on your iPod?”
He glances at me anxiously.
“Yes,” he says. “Did she say anything?”
“She said, ‘What do you have that I don’t have?’ and when I asked who she was, she said, ‘Nobody.’ ”
Christian closes his eyes as if in pain. What’s happened? What does she mean to him?
My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he misses her? I know so little about his past … um, relationships. She must have had a contract, and she would have done what he wanted, given him what he needed gladly.
Oh no—when I can’t. The thought makes me nauseous.
Climbing out of bed, Christian drags on his jeans and heads into the main room. A glance at my alarm clock shows it’s five in the morning. I roll out of bed, putting his white shirt on, and follow him.
Holy shit, he’s on the phone.
“Yes, outside SIP, yesterday … early evening,” he says quietly. He turns to me as I move toward the kitchen and asks me directly, “What time, exactly?”
“About ten to six?” I mumble. Who on earth is he calling at this hour? What’s Leila done? He relays the information to whoever’s on the line, not taking his eyes off me, his expression dark and earnest.
“Find out how … Yes … I wouldn’t have said so, but then I wouldn’t have thought she could do this.” He closes his eyes as if he’s in pain. “I don’t know how that will go down … Yes, I’ll talk to her … Yes … I know … Follow it up and let me know. Just find her, Welch—she’s in trouble. Find her.” He hangs up.